


Scratches

by endofadream



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofadream/pseuds/endofadream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous prompted: can you write a fic where for some reason the glee club sees kurt shirtless and there are huge scratch marks all up and down his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratches

“Kurt!” Rachel gasps when Kurt walks into the room, a scowl on his face. Blaine is close behind, hitching his messenger bag higher up on his shoulder. “What happened? You didn’t—?” She looks pointedly at the large orange stain on the front of Kurt’s white oxford and closes her folder, bending to stuff it into her purse.

“No,” Kurt sighs, shaking his head. He steps up onto the second row, sets his own bag down on his chair and flips open the top, rummaging around inside for the spare shirt he keeps purely out of habit. It’s just a plain black v-neck, and it’s glee rehearsal at the end of the day so he doesn’t mind giving up his normally-fashionable nature for a few hours. “Genius over here”—he thumbs back at Blaine, who looks indignant—“spilled his soda on me on the way in.”

“It was an accident!” Blaine protests; he nervously tugs at his bowtie and fidgets in the way that he always does when someone confronts him. “I said I was sorry,” he says, quieter, his eyes darting down to stare at his loafers.

Kurt straightens up, shirt in hand, and smiles, reaching out to gently touch Blaine’s arm and divert his attention back up. When he has Blaine’s gaze he tilts his head, silently lets Blaine know that it’s okay—mostly. He has two others in his closet like this shirt, and they weren’t very expensive in the first place.

Puck laughs, turning in his seat and letting an arm dangle over the orange back of his chair. His grin is goofy and lopsided as he fixes his eyes on Blaine. “Looks like someone’s in the doghouse.”

Blaine flushes bright red. Kurt merely scowls in Puck’s direction. “For your information,” he says haughtily as Finn turns around as well, “Blaine is _fine_. It was an accident.”

“You didn’t say that when I spilled chocolate pudding on your sweater last week,” Finn says, looking up at Kurt with wide, asking, puppy-dog eyes.

“That’s because it was vintage McQueen and it took me months to save up for it and a vicious night bidding against some old lady who was probably going to look terrible in it anyway,” Kurt snaps, bristling at the fresh sting of the loss. The sweater might be salvageable, but the truth is Kurt’s just too scared to even try right now.

“Mom said it might come out.”

By now most of the glee club has turned around, with the exception of Mike and Tina, who are deep in conversation. Quinn looks disinterested, but Kurt can tell that she’s still watching. _Why_ is everyone watching? It’s not like he’s even doing anything.

“Aren’t you going to go change in the bathroom?” Mercedes asks, turning around and resting her chin on the back of her chair. “I can go with you.”

Kurt sighs, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles in his shirt. “No. I have a tank top on underneath, and I don’t have time to run in there before Mr. Schue gets here. I’ll just—” He turns around, feeling his cheeks flush.

It’s irrational, he knows. This group has been with him for two years; there’s no need to feel self-conscious after everything that they’ve been through together. They’ve gotten dressed together before. But just with Blaine to remind him— _very thoroughly_ —just how perfect he thinks Kurt’s body is doesn’t mean that Kurt himself is going to believe it. In fact, he’s going to believe the exact _opposite_.

He’s slow in undoing his buttons, winching when he reaches the sticky soda stain. It’s cold against his fingertips, and when he lets the soaked cotton of his shirt fall aside he sees that it’s gotten underneath and has stained his think tank top as well.

“Oh,” Blaine says from where he’s standing next to Kurt. Kurt looks over, catches Blaine staring, an apologetic furrow between his brows, at the large orange stain on Kurt’s abdomen. “I’m sorry, Kurt. Really.”

“You’re making it up to me later,” Kurt whisper-hisses, untucking his tank top from his pants. He lets his shirt fall from his shoulders, notices out of the corner of his eye Blaine picking it up, and takes a deep breath before stripping his tank top up and over and off.

The last thing he expects as he reaches for his v-neck is a collective gasp from everyone in the room.

Instinctively he twists, tries to see behind him. “What? Is there something on my back?”

He turns his head, sees Blaine’s wide eyes, his slack-jawed expression, and instantly feels the heavy weight of dread in his stomach. His ears begin to buzz and his thoughts begin to blur; he can’t think of what’s going on, desperately tries to flip back through his memories for any sort of recollection. What he’s rewarded with it absolutely nothing and Puck’s mirth-filled voice calling out, “ _Whoa_ , get some, dudes! Who knew Anderson was a freak in the sheets?”

It rushes back quickly and with an intensity that makes Kurt sway on his feet as he stares at the wall. Hazy images of an afternoon this past Saturday begin to fill his mind’s eye, and he sees Blaine under him, head pushed back and neck arched up; he feels the heat of Blaine’s body, the sweet, velvet tightness and the desperate urgency in the cadence of their bodies together, the slick slap of flesh and their panting grunts; pain, pleasurable and sharp and burning in a way that has Kurt twisting his torso and hissing out through his teeth, radiates across Kurt’s back, over his shifting shoulders and down towards his ribcage, as Blaine comes, intense and keening. He hadn’t even known that there were still marks.

Kurt quickly turns around, hurriedly pulling his shirt over his head, not even bothering to fix it when the hem gets twisted sideways. He’s met with a group of dumbfounded eyes and incredulous, surprised expressions. Quinn looks a little scandalized. Tina looks mildly curious. Santana, who has been surprisingly silent, looks absolutely gleeful and lecherous. Kurt feels his cheeks heat up again, feels the heat burn and grow and spread from the tips of his ears down to the back of his neck.

“Did…” Sam begins, trailing off and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He jerks his head silently towards Blaine, says, “Jeez, man.”

“ _Damn_ ,” Santana says, her voice a low purr as Kurt’s head whips towards where she’s sitting, legs crossed, close to Brittany who ignores all of this by staring, fascinated, at her nails. “If I was at all interested in your boy parts I’d be _all over_ that if you can make little prim and proper bowtie gay over here let loose _that_ much.”

Kurt’s tempted to bite out that that’s just how Blaine is, that just because he dresses and acts a certain way doesn’t mean that he always behaves like that, but Blaine’s just as red-faced as he is, and is probably even more mortified than Kurt—and he’s surprised that this is all they’ve gotten so far, that there have been no jokes about positions—so he decides in the end that Santana isn’t even worth that. Let her think what she wants.

(And it’s a little flattering, too.)

“What’s everyone staring at?” Mr. Schue asks as he strolls into the classroom blissfully unaware. He sets his bag down on the top of the piano and turns to face them, a wide grin on his face as he claps his hands.

Kurt uses the distraction to sit down, pulling Blaine with him. He doesn’t know how long he can hide, but he hopes that it’s long enough.

“Hey.” Blaine pokes his shoulder. His eyes are a little sad. “You aren’t _really_ mad at me now, are you?”

Kurt laces their fingers together, offers a smile. “I love that you’re so enthusiastic for me. I could never be mad at you for that.”

He says, laughing a little to himself as he stares at the chrome legs of the chair in front of him, “Good thing that no one saw the bite marks and hickies on your chest.”


End file.
